Dangerous and Deadly: Clash for the Stone
by Kevin3
Summary: A sequel to Dangerous and Deadly Lord Voldemort. William Cartwright Sr. - decent wizard and extraordinary *magician* - has finished telling his son the story of the biggest lie foisted on the wizarding world: Voldemort never existed. And now the son wants to get in on the showmanship...
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: This story is a sequel to Dangerous and Deadly Lord Voldemort. Please read that story before trying to read this one.** You can find that story by clicking the 'Kevin3' link at the top to get to my profile page, then finding 'Dangerous and Deadly Lord Voldemort' in the stories section.

**Chapter 1 – First Day with an Old Friend**

Hogwarts was full of tradition; one of the time-honored of those rituals was the rule-breaking on the first night, where every truly curious soul snuck out in the middle of the night to explore the castle.

Where would _you_ go? Maybe a risky jaunt into the Forbidden Forest – what's Hogwarts if not a good place to bend the rules? Or perhaps the Hogwarts Library, where you could get a chance to read up on all the cool new spells you'll be learning? Possibly into one of the dark and myserious dungeons waiting to be delved by a fresh and curious explorer?

William Cartwright Jr. managed to set out for a destination that _nobody_ had ever chosen before: He was sneaking out to visit Moaning Myrtle.

Any Hogwarts veteran could've warned him as to what he was about to walk into. As soon as Willaim first stepped into the abandoned bathroom, the waterworks began. A sniffling pout for a few seconds, followed by full crying. The tone alone would make a person flinch and think about running for safety.

Oho, but that was _not_ the end.

Dear lord, no. That bawling was merely the equivalent of a rattlesnake's tail. As bad as her crying was, it was just a warning to run… and if you weren't wise enough to flee during those first few precious seconds, you would inevitably be faced with the most pain-inducing punishment known to wizard-kind: "Story Time with Moaning Myrtle."

Myrtle's voice cut through the bathroom with a nasally whine, with a pitch that rattled both tile and bone. What she told wasn't even really a story – it was more like a long-winded, drama-ridden, angst-packed turd told in complete stream-of-consciousness. Will listened as she went from topic to horrible topic – her story had it all: puberty, dead pets, failed classes, an untimely death, and… the worst… _feminine problems._

Really, it simply wasn't possible to tell a yarn more likely to drive a person running from the bathroom at top speed, never daring to return.

Which, of course, was why Myrtle was doing it.

Ten minutes later, William's strange reaction to her antics finally brought Myrtle up short. "Well," she screeched. "What are you still doing here? And why are you smiling?"

"I liked your story."

"W… what?!"

"It was very nice – it made me feel better about how my own day went."

Myrtle's jaw fell a little.

Will twisted a knife a bit further. "Is it okay if I come by here regularly? It's nice to meet a friend I can spend time with and talk about stuff with. What's your name?"

This… this had never happened before. What was Myrtle supposed to do _now?_ Double down on the routine? She'd used up her best material already (what 11-year old boy _wouldn't_ run when the subject of menstruation came up?!) Switch gears? Flat out disappear? Just her luck – the one person that ended up being able to tolerate her antics had to be the _dopiest_ person she'd ever met. The boy looked like a slavering puppy-dog, if not quite as smart. She ended up simply replying, "Myrtle. Moaning Myrtle."

"Well, Myrtle," Will said, "I think I'm going to be stopping by here each week – no_,_ each _day_ – so we can spend more time together."

Wait… something wasn't right. His mask slipped just a _tiny_ bit, and she could tell that some sort of joke was at work here.

Will and Myrtle looked at each other for a few seconds. Myrtle's face slowly grew suspicious and slightly angry. Will grinned. "I pushed it too far with that 'each _day_' phrase, didn't I?"

"Are you making fun of me?" Myrtle pouted, falling back into her stand-by. _Maybe it's not too late to drive him off…_

"Oh, go for it," Will urged. "I'd love to hear another tale. Is this one going to feature pimples, how your grandmother died, and maybe something about bad gossip? Oooh – maybe you add in something about your…"

"Who Are You?" Myrtle interrupted loudly.

"I'm sorry," Will answered. "I should have introduced myself when I came in… but I really wanted to meet you and see your routine as soon as possible."

Myrtle's face blanched. Who… how… how could this kid know about her 'act'? "Who are you?" she repeated.

"My name, my dear lady, is William Cartwright Junior."

Myrtle blinked. And slowly smiled.

"You know," she said with a predatory grin, "I was beginning to worry that Hogwarts was becoming a bit boring…"

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This story will be roughly the same length as its predecessor. Chapters will be posted roughly each week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Just Another Saturday at the Cartwrights**

* * *

_Son, are you sure you want to do this?_

_- William_

* * *

_Yep. Start the ball rolling as soon as you can._

_- Will_

* * *

William came to one conclusion: he hated paperwork. No… not paperwork, exactly, but _bureaucracy_. Did you know that to file for domestic status on a foreign business required 217 different sets of forms to be filed and approved with the Ministry of Magic? One or two, sure – that would be understandable, but 217 separate collections of extended documentation? _Did you fill out your form acknowledging that the importing of any species of flying animal is banned by the No Air Borders Act of 1412? Did you fill out your form detailing your compliance with the international standards commission on maximum underground depth for wizard occupational safety? Dang, you caught me – my plan was to operate an illegal dragon-smuggling operation miles beneath the earth's surface._

The worst part was he wasn't even doing all this paperwork for something interesting. It's not like he was using it to funnel illegal exports, run a reverse kidnapping network, or something suitably exciting. No, he was doing it to create something almost as boring as the forms he was filling out.

Looking to take a break from the drudgery of filling out yet another acknowledgment (this one on his awareness on which deal brokerages required a Type G license from the International Confederation's Magical Species Regulatory Board) he stretched, deciding that maybe a walk would be in order.

Before he could leave the house, though, the family owl flew through the open window. "Smoke? Oh, great, what has Will done _now?_" he asked the owl.

"Hoot."

"Don't hoot me, Smoke. Last time you came here from Hogwarts, it was to inform me that my son was given a week of detentions for what he did during Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

"Hoot."

"Time before that? Mongols invaded the portraits. _Mongols!_"

"Hoot."

"_Mongols!_"

"Hoot."

"Don't ask me how he was able to make the whole Owlery disappear. I mean, sure, you could block off the ground entrance, but it's not like the owls wouldn't continue to exist. But how on earth did he convince the owls to lay low for those few days? It's not like he had someone on the insi..."

"… Hoot?"

William blinked and faced the family owl in full. "He… _you_ helped him pull it off?!"

"… hoot."

William rolled his eyes, finally taking the letter from the nervous owl. Smoke immediately flew to safety, but before William could start reading the letter, he heard a voice calling from the window.

"Mister Cartwright!"

William narrowly avoided groaning. Billy Bogglesdill, the annoying 9-year old brat that lived two houses down the street. Unfortunately, he couldn't just yell at the kid and make him leave, because Billy was the son of parents William happened to be… well, "conning" had a really negative connotation. Hey, the Bogglesdills inherited way too much money, and if William could act as a conduit from them to much more worthy recipients (half to himself, half to St. Mungos), then they could go on believing he was a Seer descended from the Order of Merlin.

"Mister Cartwright – what number am I thinking of?"

William carefully reached into the upper-right pocket of his robes, discretely pulling out a slip of parchment and quickly reading it.

"Four hundred and seventeen."

"What color is the headband that…"

"Purple."

"What animal smells like an…"

"You do."

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Billy, but I don't have time to tell you that the South American Malanitir smells like an orange. You should get home before you get chewed out by your parents for not doing your arithmetic homework."

"You're amazing!" Billum shrieked before running off.

_Great_, William thought to himself. He took a fresh slip of parchment and copied down what was written: '417, Purple, South American Malantir like an orange, arithmetic homework overdue'. _Now I've got to use the time-turner because of that brat._

Before William could get his bearings, five owls flew through the window.

"Oh, what now?!"

Fortunately, it looked like it was just some… _feedback_ on his latest book. Unfortunately, 'Looked Like' was never a safe assumption – sometimes his critics could send the nastiest of curses through Owl Post. He resignedly started going through his standard 15 incantations for each package, scanning for a wide variety of contingent magic and debilitating substances. The charms didn't pick up anything – and while the fourth package did have a perfume of some sort in it, that was only to be expected now and then.

Finally, nearly 20 minutes later, he finished the last spell and banished the five packages to the spare bedroom; while he wouldn't mind a bit of ego-inflating, he could wait until later to go through the five packages. At this rate, he'd never be able to get to…

_Knock knock. _ "Hello? William? Are you there?"

William's head thudded against the table in frustration – quite a bit harder than he was intending. It was okay; the mound of paperwork cushioned the blow.

_Knock knock knock knock. _"William? It's Angela – I was wondering if you could help me out with the gnomes again?"

He took a deep breath, thinking for a handful of seconds. _Okay… I already have to use the time-turner anyway, so I might as well do this with some style. It's… 1:53 now, so I'll go back, use some illusion at 1:52 to make the gnomes think I'm some sort of… hmmm… I'll claim I'm the second coming of Herox, Destroyer of Gnomes, and that Angela's yard is the new Altar of Fiery Gnome Sacrifice. When I'm done, I'll sneak back here, sleight-of-hand this parchment into my pocket. Wait... no, I have to have the parchment in my pocket _before_ I deal with the gnomes, because Billy showed up before Angela. So I need to go back and slip the answers to Billy's questions into my pocket – so the parchment is in my pocket when he shows up, and then do the Avatar of Gnomish Death at 1:52. Sounds do-able._

Time Turners enabled a _lot_ of creative illusions. They just took some careful fore-thought.

William finally got up and answered the door. Angela was dressed in a semi-low-cut robe and had a wide-eyed puppy-dog look on her face – which William mentally thought of as her 'I need a favor' costume. She was apparently oblivious to what was happening across the street, though, as a crimson-robed figure was brandishing a giant fireball and scaring the heck out of a bunch of garden pests. "William," she asked in a simper, "can you help me out de-gnoming my garden? I don't know how you do it so well."

As she was finishing her sentence, William caught sight of the red-clothed mage disappearing in a cloud of black smoke. After giving his future self a few extra seconds to make a clean getaway (and the smoke a chance to clear,) William asked, "Err... what gnomes? Your yard doesn't look like it has any."

Angela looked around and let out a faint 'Eep.' "Oh my," she said with a giggle. "Looks like they left after they saw I was coming over here to ask your help."

"Indeed."

After politely saying goodbye, William sat down at the table – _finally_ able to read his son's letter.

_I've been thinking about safe ways to prod your enemy into action and how we might get you back to your old self. You remember the Living Legends, and think about what Nick would do._

_- Will_

William groaned. "You're still on about this, aren't you?"

It was the continuing disagreement between them, in which William thought his son was being a bit naïve. Will's hope was that if Voldemort returned (in a limited capacity) and Harry defeated him in some heroic fashion... the world would feel grateful to Potter – and maybe this translated to Harry having a better life. Or something – William had the suspicion that his son's motives were a bit convoluted and quite a bit half-formed... but he figured it was better to work together and make sure nothing went wrong as opposed to his son trying to do it all alone at Hogwarts. He supposed it did help that they weren't shooting to bring Voldemort back to power – just to a spot where Harry's efforts were appreciable.

As for this letter? It wasn't terribly difficult to figure out. William's 'enemy' was Dumbledore, back to his old self was 'Voldemort', 'Living Legends' was capitalized because referred to the book Legends Currently Living that they'd both practically memorized. But… who was Nick? There wasn't a "Nick" in the book that he could recall.

Frowning, William abandoned the idea of a relaxing walk and pulled out Legends Currently Living, flipping through the table of contents. "Albus Dumbledore… Gilderoy Lockhart… really, Potter's in here? … Nicol… oho! Nicolas Flamel. Now _that_ is a thought." William pondered it, absently saying, "Excellent idea, son."

The Philosopher's Stone, created by Nicolas Flamel. His son's suggestion certainly had merit. Voldemort, if he were hovering on the gates of death, might try to revive himself by such an artifact. And better yet, stealing it had the great benefit of being _obvious._ If "Voldemort" stole five random potions ingredients, it was possible nobody would figure out the connection – Dumbledore was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. Stealing the stone would be blatantly clear – after all, it only did two things. Being obvious might not seem like a positive trait (wouldn't Voldemort try to resurrect himself without anyone knowing?) – but the key wasn't that they were actually _trying_ to resurrect Voldemort; they were trying to make sure _Dumbledore knew_ what was going on.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as mailing the headmaster a note that said, '_Hey, Albus, I'm not dead yet, and I've got my sights set on immortality. – Love, Voldemort. PS: Could you tell me where Flamel is?'_

No, the only thing that made sense was to steal the stone. Sure, that was supposedly impossible – but that wasn't an obstacle. Dumbledore would see the stone go missing, and…

… okay, there was a flaw in the plan. Dumbledore would probably assume that someone stole it for infinite wealth, or maybe some fool trying to live forever. Speaking of which… why wasn't _William_ trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone? William Cartwright, Millionaire Master of Time _did_ have a nice ring to it. Something to think about later.

Anyway, somehow he would have to steal the stone, yet leave enough clues behind to tie the whole thing to Voldemort's hand.

Fortunately, that had to be the easiest part of the plan. After he got done with the wasted Time-Turner hour, he could head to every wizarding library in the area and find all the books that involve Nicolas Flamel, Alchemy, or Artifacts… and check them out under the name of Tom Riddle. The name would mean nothing to pretty much anyone else besides Dumbledore – and when the old man investigated things after the stone was stolen, he'd come to the only logical conclusion.

_You know… this is fun. Still not worth doing ministry forms for, though…_

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	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – The Oracle of Golgothir**

_Well, the ball is rolling. You realize I could go to Azkaban because of Step Two?_

_- William_

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_Oh? Is that a new experience for you, doing things that could land you there?_

_- Will_

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_Don't be a snot._

_- William_

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A 5th year Ravenclaw by the name of Heather Patrice wasn't sure if she was making the right decision. She had a quandary – one she hadn't been able to solve on her own. And legend said that the Oracle of Golgothir could solve any problem… for a price.

With trepidation, she descended into the dungeon where the Oracle was rumored to haunt. As she opened the thick oak landing door, a sense of foreboding swept over her, her skin prickling in fear. There was… there was old magic at work here.

Yet she continued, braving the corridor that led to "The Lair of the Golgothir", a black wooden door that seemed to be covered in a translucent fuzzy mold. Swallowing, she opened the door. Tendrils of smoke curled outward through the opening, billowing along the floor as if eager to escape.

"Come in, Miss Patrice," came a cracked voice.

Heather cautiously took a step inside. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, for only a smattering of small floating candles lit the room. It was difficult to get a measure of the room's size, for it didn't seem to have walls so much as curtains of smoke descending from the ceiling. The only furniture in the room was a circular table and two matching chairs; the table was covered by a black tablecloth atop which rested a small deck of tarot cards.

But the ominous atmosphere paled to the locus of the room, the Oracle itself. A dark figure wearing hooded robes sitting in the opposite chair. The robes seemed to emit pure blackness, and while the face was completely clouded by the hood, the hands protruding from the long sleeves were scaled and scarred as though they belonged to something not quite human… not quite alive.

Figuring she couldn't turn back now, she sat down at the table, resting her shaky knees.

"Miss Patrice," the cracked voice said. "Welcome. I would ask you what service the Oracle of Golgothir can offer, except that I already know."

"You… you do?"

"Of course." The mysterious figure made a motion with their hand and the candles began glowing a menacing shade of dark purple. "You've had your problem for awhile, haven't you?"

"He just… I thought that if I gave him time…"

"And you found that time didn't resolve things between you."

"He… he said he didn't think of me that way," Heather blurted.

"And you want me to change his mind?"

"You… they said you can do anything."

"I can."

"Then… what would it cost for you to… to make him care about me? To love me?"

"Oh, not much," the oracle replied, a glint of malice in the voice. "I could enslave his soul for you, bind his will to yours for all of eternity."

"That's… not what…"

"No lies, Miss Patrice," the oracle hissed. "Do you want him?"

"… yes, but…"

"Does your heart not command you to be with him?"

"… yes…"

"So we must then have your heart command _him_ to be with _you_. He will be nothing but a puppet to your ardor – it is true, I can surely give you this. Come, Miss Patrice – let us see your glorious road in store…" The oracle picked up the tarot deck and separated it into two piles, then began shuffling each pile separately. "Hope and fate, wishes and destiny, what do you have in store for our exquisite Miss Patrice?"

The oracle stopped shuffling both piles, setting them each down with a firm finality. After a few seconds of tension, the oracle flipped over the first card from the left pile. The Lovers. Despite the seriousness of the moment, Heather couldn't help but let out a quiet squee.

"A good omen, Miss Patrice. The Lovers, a signifier of the devotion he may be brought to feel towards you, his fate forever entwined in yours."

Heather's eyes seemed to glaze over happily at the words.

"Perhaps the two of you are truly compatible, would be truly bonded in affection. But… this is but half of what fate might be holding."

The oracle's scaled hand reached over and flipped the first card of the other pile.

Death.

Heather's optimism shattered; the oracle laughed – a hacking sound that sent chills down her spine. "Interesting, Miss Patrice… interesting. It seems the rituals you want me to perform might lead to your eternal bonding and love… or your unfortunate death. And such a demise would not be… pleasant. The essence of nether would emerge to bind you, the dark shadows beyond this realm would ensnare you and fasten you onto nothingness."

Heather was paralyzed. What… what was she supposed to do?

The oracle seemed to read her mind. "Do not worry, Miss Patrice. I will not make you choose blindly, make you gamble with your future. Lesser seers might have you do so; the oracle of Golgothir can look into the woven strands of fates themselves. Let us delve together."

"…"

The oracle delicately combined both halves of the tarot deck and began shuffling. After a minute, the seer's hands stopped and carefully, cautiously removed the top card of the deck.

Death.

Heather swallowed.

"Let us try again, Miss Patrice." Again, the deck was shuffled.

And again, Death was pulled.

"Not a positive omen." The deck was shuffled a third time. "Please pull the card for yourself and see what you have in store."

Heather reached forward, hand trembling, and pulled off the top card. She flipped it over.

Death.

The oracle's hand snapped forward, snaring Heather's wrist with nails digging painfully into her flesh. "You think so _lightly_ about binding someone to _your_ will, to changing _their mind_?" the Oracle said feverishly. "You've chosen your fate, you've sealed your _doom!_ It's time for me to exact my price!"

To say Heather was terrified was an understatement.

Her petrifaction wasn't helped when a ghostly hand emerged from the center of the table, reaching towards her.

"The Essence of the Nether has come for you!" the oracle incanted, still holding tight to her hand. "It comes, and I have seen but one road that leads you away from it!"

"What?!" Heather screamed, fighting ineffectively to get away from the phantasmal hand protruding from the table; the ethereal appendage seemed to be slowly grasping towards her. "What way do you see?!"

"It may already be too late, Miss Patrice," the oracle said in a whisper.

"PLEASE!" Heather begged.

The oracle moved their other hand with a flourish, seeming to produce a small velvet sack from nothingness. "These are rare seeds of the mystical Asian Nightshade. It is a symbol, a ward against death and chaos. Swallow a single seed now and devote yourself to planting the remainder along the walkway leading north of the castle. North is the direction of Will, of Order, of Life. Tend the plants, see them grow strong along the entire length of the walk… and death may be sated without your soul."

"I will!" Heather shrieked, taking the seeds. "I will, I _promise_, just… just _don't let me die!_"

The oracle finally released their hold on her wrist. Heather didn't waste any time and promptly tore from the room.

Several seconds passed before the oracle straightened up and began chuckling in a very non-mysterious way.

The ghostly hand started rising from the table, revealing the ghost that had been playing along with the charade.

"Okay, you were right – that was _fun_," Myrtle said, grinning. "And you're even worse than your dad."

"Thank you," Will replied, grinning.

"Asian Nightshade?"

Will shrugged. "Eh, she's apparently got a crush on some guy who doesn't care about her. Meanwhile, one of the chasers on the Slytherin quidditch team – a herbology prodigy named Hodwin – has been staring at her forlornly across the great hall. It's pretty pathetic, honestly – he's even gotten the nickname 'Hodwin the Hopeless'. But, who knows - maybe they'll get lucky and cross paths – him seeing her decorating the northern path leading to the quidditch pitch, offer to help her."

"Wait a minute," Myrtle said, chortling. "You did all of that… that performance… just to play _matchmaker_?"

Will snorted. "Hardly. I did it for the entertainment value and to hone my skills. But I have to demand a price for my services, so I might as well ask for something that might do the world some good in the process."

"I don't buy it," Myrtle said in a sing-song. "You've got a mushy romantic side you've been hiding from me all along."

"Hmph."

"It's about time, too. You're a fifth year – most 15 year olds aren't worried about putting on performances as the 'Oracle of Golgothir', they're worried about potions essays or figuring out how to ask a girl out."

"Why would I worry about either of those? I aced potions, and I've got a girl that frankly won't stop haunting me."

"Not funny," Myrtle said, punching his shoulder. Well, _trying_ to punch his shoulder; her fist sailed right through him.

The pair began making their way through the castle to Myrtle's bathroom, chatting idly along the way.

"Okay, there were a few things about what happened that I'm curious about."

"A magician never reveals their tricks," Will said smugly.

Myrtle snorted. "Would it help if I promised to take your secrets to the grave?"

Will grinned. "Oh, my dear, but how could I possibly know that you'd keep such a promise? You girls _say_ you can keep a secret…"

Myrtle ethereally punched him again. "You're a horrible person, Will Cartwright. Seriously, how did you hear about her crush?"

"I didn't."

"Wait, but… no. You _knew_ when she sat down exactly what her problem was. Did you do mind-reading?"

"Not Mind-Reading, _Cold_ Reading. A classic. I say something vague and non-descriptive and simply worked off information she fed me. She said something about 'he' and 'him'. It could've been a boyfriend issue, a father issue, or even something with a brother… so I prodded and let her fill out more information – all the while, acting as though I knew from the beginning."

"Have you ever done that to me?"

"Of course."

"You _have? When?!_"

"It's a survival instinct for anyone with a girlfriend."

Myrtle ghost-punched him a third time. "Jerk. So what about the Death card? How did you keep it flipping over? Oooh! Did you swap it out for a Tarot deck that was just a bunch of Death cards?"

Will smiled. "That would've worked, too. Nah, I just did some false shuffling – and there are a _lot_ of ways to do them. To be honest, doing muggle card tricks with a tarot deck is almost _too_ easy. The sorts of wizards that believe in an 'Oracle of Golgothir' are the sort to put _way_ too much meaning into what little pieces of paper say. If I showed a muggle that trick by pulling a '7 of diamonds' out three times in a row, they just think it looks impressive. If I show a wizard that trick and pull 'The Lovers' out three times in a row, they think it's an ironclad omen of true and eternal passion."

Myrtle's bathroom was empty (as usual) and the pair opened the passage into Will's lair. As they entered, Myrtle asked, "When is the chamber going to be done?"

"Pretty soon. Oh! I wanted to thank you for helping out with the center dais. Have you looked at it yet? I mean, from the center, down on the ground?"

"No. Why?"

William grinned. "Just watch."

The two of them entered the series of tunnels, caverns, and rooms he'd been excavating beneath Myrtle's bathroom. He'd originally been using it as a training room, practicing and perfecting "combat magic" (in reality, it was just the same sort of tricks his dad was infamous for) – but Myrtle convinced him that maybe he could turn it into the fabled "Chamber of Secrets."

And what a chamber! Myrtle's help had been invaluable. Nobody stopped to think what a useful set of skills ghosts had. First, they could travel through solid surfaces. Need to excavate? Get a ghost to explore the rock and see if there are any obstacles or cavernous pockets. But just as constructive, they weren't confined to the ground, or even a regular angled perspective. Will really wanted to sell the authenticity of this place, and being able to have an eye that could look at every element from every angle only added to the chilly creepiness of the place. Even though he _built_ the room, it still gave him goosebumps to stand on the center dais. From that vantage point, the stonework along the edges of the room was angled to appear as a writhing mass of serpents from every angle. It looked normal when you entered the room… but from that one spot, all the angles and curves matched up to create one of the most sinister forced-perspective murals he'd ever seen.

Myrtle took a look and gasped. "Wh… wow, that is _incredible_. I can imagine people thinking that Slytherin himself p…"

She stopped. There was the soft echo of footsteps echoing from the stairway leading up to the bathroom. Both of them went deathly quiet.

"No, Cheryl, it's not worth it."

"I _have to go_, Tara – I won't make it to the bathroom on the next floor."

Myrtle smiled; it was time to drive away another intruder.

Well, that was one problem with Will Cartwright's new lair: it occasionally had people defecating in the entryway.

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Author's Note: Ahhhh... I love this chapter. And it's actually due to a previous review asking for more 'bang' - it was originally two separate "buildup" chapters that didn't even include an example of Will's Shenanigans (it was "Tell", not "Show") I'm much happier with this final result than what my original rough sketch was going to contain.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – The Grand Gringotts Heist**

_Ha. Very funny. Muggle Caper Movies?_

_- William_

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_It wasn't a joke. Have you watched them?_

_- Will_

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_Have now. Please ignore previous snark._

_- William_

* * *

William checked his satchel one last time.

Two mountain climbing pitons? _Check._

One giant 270-pound ring of iron transfigured into a 4-inch paperweight with a solid metal handhold? _Check._

A quarter-mile of rope soaked in a mysterious liquid? _Check._

A dagger transfigured into a muggle-style water cutter? _Check._

A spare wand registered to 'Jared Quimble'? _Check._

Jug of Disillusioning Formula? _Check._

It was time to rob a bank.

It all started pretty simple. 'Jared Quimble' was looking to visit his account. Technically, Jared Quimble didn't actually exist – it was just a second vault that William had set up with just enough galleons to not look fishy (banks tended to get suspicious if you opened a vault account with 3 sickles.)

"Jared Quimble, Vault 14992," the teller said. "Telnok will take you there."

William followed the diminutive being to a beaten-up looking rail cart. In as snide of a voice as he could manage, Wiliam muttered, "Gods, this place is worthless. No surprise, since its being run by these foul vermin. What a waste."

Telnok didn't give any sign that he'd heard the comment. It wasn't until the first wrong turn that William knew that his remark had worked. Everyone knew that if you peeved off the goblins, they'd make sure you took the most indirect and nausea-inducing ride on their rail-carts as they could possibly arrange. Few people stopped to consider that this meant you could get them to take you to every cavern within the bank, not just the ones along a direct route.

William, for his part, was screaming his lungs out in fear (and it was only half-fake.)

On the fourth open cavern, William purposely let one of the turns slide him up and over the side of the cart, screaming as he fell.

Using his wand, he quickly propelled one of the pitons into a support beam of the rail track. The piton was arranged so that the wet rope was already threaded through its eye – and that one end of the rope was securely tied to the 4-inch paperweight.

Making sure to hold on to the other end of the rope, William continued his screaming. When he saw the floor rapidly approaching, he abruptly stopped his scream and quickly used his wand to slow his fall.

Though his charm worked, he hit the ground a bit harder than he meant to. He could worry about bruises later – he needed to start working quickly, because he did _not_ have much time. Standing on the stone ground, he pulled the wet rope until it went tight – meaning the paperweight was tight up against the piton several hundred feet above him. William magicked the other piton into the stone floor, tying off the rope; he then unstoppered the disillusioning formula and poured most of it on the rope.

The mysterious substance the rope had been soaked in? One nice thing it did was act as a conductor for fluids, propelling the formula up along the surface of the rope with caterpillary forces. Within 10 seconds, entire setup was practically invisible.

While the formula was working, William quickly threw Quimble's wand off to the side, poured the rest of the formula on himself and ducked behind a rock.

"Down here!" came a harsh, guttural voice.

Within a half-minute, four goblins decked out in magical battle armor had arrived on the scene.

"He didn't save himself?"

"Fool probably _wet_ himself."

"Good riddance."

"Then where's the body?"

"Good point. But… oho, well! What do we have here?!"

William swallowed, not daring to look out from behind the rock (disillusioned or no.) _Please no, you can't have found me, you can't have found me… please, just be the wand…_

"Take a look at what your guest left, Telnok."

William fought not to breathe a sigh of relief.

One of the goblins had found the wand. This… this simply never happened. Ever. The penalty for a wizard willingly giving their wand to a goblin wasn't just Azkaban; the punishment was an immediate Dementor's Kiss. Wandlore was considered a state secret from the species that occasionally tried to overthrow all of wizard-kind.

From the goblin's perspective, what happened in the last 5 minutes was pretty obvious. A wizard fell off the cart (again), but this time hadn't been able to save himself from the fall. The wizard's pancaked body was probably staining one of the alcoves of the cavern.

_Technically_, Gringotts Goblins were required to immediately report the incident. But William knew it wouldn't happen. As soon as the ministry was notified, the wand belonging to 'Jared Quimble' would no longer be in Goblin hands. He figured they'd do as many frantic tests on the device as they could manage in an hour or two and _then_ report the incident.

Sure enough, the lead goblin indicated that they should _quietly_ begin searching the alcoves and corridors of any passages leading out of the cavern, and that he would be back shortly.

William quickly made his way through the snaking passages, finding the appropriate vault without much difficulty. He'd been prepared to deal with a dragon if necessary – but wasn't exactly disappointed that he didn't have to.

Vault 713.

Most wizards, if they got to this point, would've been flummoxed pretty quickly. If they tried a spell to circumvent the vault, alarms would've instantly sounded. Even smarter ones with muggle knowledge would be thwarted, because there were wards in place to deal with explosives, metal blades, or any form of structural impact.

The problem was the goblins weren't current with muggle technology. One of the movies William had watched featured a "Water Cutter" – a muggle device which propelled water fast enough that _it could cut through stone!_ Those creative little buggers!

The best part was none of it would trip the occasional security sweeps the goblins performed. After all, he wasn't even performing any spells – the only magic in effect was the continuing transfiguration effect (and if the alarms tripped on something as minor as that, countless noblewomen beauty products would probably set the things off.)

Fortunately, vault 713 didn't have a terribly complicated hinge mechanism. Oh, the _lock_ was a nasty piece of work, but no door lock mattered if you could simply sever the hinges. It only took a few minutes before William was able to bend the door off to the side and sneak in through the crevice.

And… there it was. It was hard to miss – the vault only had 3 items in it: a silverish sword with rubies, an old sepia photo of two unfamiliar teenage boys on it, and a glass box with a gem that looked like a garnet.

"Success," William whispered and pilfered the box.

He quickly ran back to the main chamber. Now it was time for the dangerous part.

He pulled his wand and took careful aim down one of the hallways. He cast the most violent, destructive curse that he could think of. A miniature explosion echoed through the air, dust and debris clogging his sight.

Alarms began to blare. _As planned._

… and nothing else happened. _Uhhh…._

After a few seconds, he could hear the sounds of goblins scrambling to return to the chamber.

"Come on!" William muttered to himself, starting to panic. "You're supposed to…"

He was interrupted by a roaring noise from far above him. He sighed, smiling in relief.

A few seconds later, a torrent of water began falling – the Thieves Downfall had been directed into the chasm, turning the cavern into a waterfall-laden grotto. It was unknown how the Goblins made or enchanted that water, but it was greatly feared by most potential thieves – whose very magic would be thwarted by the substance. William? He had been _counting_ on it.

The invisible rope that he had no way of spotting? The disillusionment charm was dispelled and the rope was once again visible.

The 4-pound paperweight hundreds of feet above him? Now reverted back to the original 270 pound slab.

The muggle water cutter in William's hand? De-transfigured back into a regular dagger.

William gripped the rope with one hand and used the dagger to slash the rope with the other. Until now, the iron wrung hanging from above had been suspended by the rope, which was tied to the piton on the ground below. Now that William had cut the rope at the bottom and the weight wasn't held in place by the second piton, it began to descend… and pull William up at the same time – without any effort or magic having to be spent.

The best part? The Goblins didn't even consider that the intruder could be on the _top_ levels. The Thieves Downfall dispelled all magical effects, so it would be impossible for a wizard to levitate upwards or even use a broom – they'd be stuck trying to navigate through the complex weave of corridors and passages. While the goblins frantically searched the lower levels, William simply walked out the front door.

Well, not _'simply'_. He did have one thing he just _had_ to do before pulling off the heist. Right before leaving the cavern, he struck a match and lit the rope on fire. The rope, doused in a mysterious liquid concoction, lit up like a bright red flare, quickly falling to the ground like a spasming pyrotechnic serpent thrashing in the grotto below. No, this didn't technically help him fleeing the place. But on the other hand: it looked cool. Hey, what could he say? He was a magician to his core.

_I… I can't believe I pulled the heist off._ After safely apparating away, William opened the case to the stone to gaze at it. Ah… the beautiful little gem that would grant him everlasting life and endless riches… oh, yes, and help out with the whole "Voldemort" performance for his son.

However, as he lovingly admired the stone, something surreal started to happen. The stone began to… melt? How… how?! The Philosopher's Stone wasn't supposed to dissolve! "What?!" he shouted frantically. _Did the Thieves Downfall do this?!_

Within seconds, the stone had vanished completely. Where it had stood, a small note shimmered into place, bearing writing that looked suspiciously familiar.

_Tom,_

_I hope you're not still clinging to immortality? You won't like where it leads…_

_- Albus Dumbledore_

William laughed. He… he couldn't help it. William didn't know how to feel. Part of him was crushed that the stone wasn't in his grasp (seriously, eternal life and wealth? The philosophers could bugger themselves.) Part of him was elated because the plan was working better than expected – after all of this, Albus was so firmly in the 'Voldemort is Alive' camp that his son would have _no_ problem the coming school year.

And so he laughed. He'd done his earlier work with the bookstores _too well_, and Dumbledore caught on and _already moved the stone_. What's more, he left a taunting note in its stead.

_Though… I wonder where the real stone is at?_

* * *

Author's Note: I should have mentioned this at the beginning of the story, but here goes:

I generally don't like prequels – or any story that the reader already knows for a certainty what's going to happen plot-wise. It makes it very difficult to generate suspense, because there's never any doubt to the reader what's about to happen.

I'm trying to skirt by that problem by making the story a bit more tangential to the books. For instance, don't expect a scene where William puts a jinx on Harry's broomstick at the first Quidditch game. You already know how it'd go, and would you really be interested in reading it? Whereas, stuff like the Gringotts break-in or the "Oracle of Golgathir"? It's a lot more enjoyable in my opinion – your knowledge of canon doesn't take away from the experience.

Anyway, Please Review!


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